


Mellow

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, coming down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 12:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16974513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: While John is tweaking, he's no use to Harold at all.





	Mellow

John emerged from the collapsing warehouse covered in white powder and dragging a gangly teenager behind him by the collar.

"The hell?" said Carter, leaning on the open door of her squad car. Behind John, something in the warehouse exploded, and flames began to lick along the roof. "Is there anyone else in there?" 

John slung the kid into the back of her car. "Nope," he said. "Better hose him off before you throw him in lock-up, or people will be shaking him down." He meant this literally, because he shrugged out of his jacket, and beat it against the trunk of her car. White powder flew off it in clouds. 

"John, what happened in there?" Carter had heard rumours about this place, but it wasn't on her beat, and right now she didn't have a lot of spare time for snooping through warehouses in Brooklyn: she wouldn't have been here except that Finch had called her. She had enough extra curricular activity what with minding Laskey and chasing down HR. 

John didn't answer; he was stamping his feet, shedding more powder. He pulled off a shoe and upended it. A small pile of white accumulated on the sidewalk. 

"John," she said. "John!" He jumped at her voice and drew his weapon on her. Carter threw her hands up in the air, shocked. She kept her voice low and calm. "John, you need to tell me what happened in there." 

"Fell in a hopper," he said, the words short and bitten off. He holstered his gun. "Some kind of stimulant; not sure what. Amphetamines, definitely." 

Carter was proud that the first words out of her mouth weren't "There's a hopper of drugs in there?" but, "How about I give Finch a call?" 

John shrugged. "I can walk home. It's not that far." He turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving her with a warehouse fire and an intransigent teenager currently brushing a suspect substance off his shoulders and into the back of her squad car. 

"But it's nearly a hundred blocks!" said Finch when Carter contacted him, after calling the incident in. She could hear the fire trucks wailing towards her now. 

"I'm sorry, Finch, I can't leave the suspect John dropped on me," she said. "But John's wired as hell, and I think you should catch him before he does something stupid." 

\---

Harold pulled his car up alongside John, and slowed to a walking pace despite the outraged honking behind him. John glanced once in his direction, and then ignored him. Harold had to open a line to his earpiece. 

"Get in the car, Mr Reese." Harold hadn't flipped anyone the bird in at least three decades, but the cab driver behind him was pushing him to the edge. The matter was decided when, after an egregiously long blast on the horn, John drew his weapon on the taxi. Harold pulled his car to a complete halt, reached behind him and threw open the back door. 

"Mr Reese, I will drive on the sidewalk if that's what it takes to get you in this car," he said into the earpiece, with confidence he did not feel. "I will not have you putting civilians at risk." 

There was a long moment while John turned and considered him, his eyes narrowed. Then he holstered his gun, walked around the car and slid into the back seat. There was still white powder in his hair, and his pupils were barely visible in a sea of blue. Perspiration beaded across his forehead, despite the chill weather.

Harold nosed back into traffic, in front of the now very courteous cab, and headed for the nearest safe house. He held a tablet vial out to John. "Doctor Tillman says to take two of these. She's having the powder tested right now to find out exactly what you've been exposed to." 

John took the vial, read the label, then wound down the window and threw it out of the moving car. "I'm no good to you sedated, Finch." His hands were trembling, but he didn't seem to notice, what with trying to watch all of the cars around them at the same time. 

Exasperated, Harold bit down on the obvious retort that John was worse than useless while he was tweaking. They were almost at the safe house, where hopefully he could get John to wash any residue off his skin and then calm him down. He wished he could get that gun off him, but he knew the chances of John surrendering his weapon now were infinitesimal. Instead, Harold kept up a running conversation, his voice much steadier than he felt. 

"Doctor Tillman has been remarkably helpful, considering she doesn't know the exact make-up of the substance in the hopper. Detective – Officer Carter tells me that the site has been declared a chemical hazard." 

John watched him silently via the rear vision mirror, but said nothing.

"Our young friend Mr Castellanos has been put through some kind of decontamination protocol," Harold said. "He's much smaller than you, I hope that he doesn't suffer any severe effects from the stimulant." 

"He didn't go in. He led me right above the hopper," said John. "He knew exactly where there was a broken plank, skipped over it. I went through. All he got was a light dusting." He flexed his knuckles, as if he were planning to give Mr Castellanos more than a light dusting if he had the boy here. 

"That's helpful," said Harold, tapping his earpiece. "I'll just relay that to Officer Carter." He was starting to feel as if there were two holes being bored in the back of his head. 

By the time he pulled the car into their parking space, John couldn't sit still in the back seat, shifting back and forth to watch first the front then the rear window. He'd drawn his gun again and now he held it low and ready. 

Harold eyed the distance between the car and the elevator, then used his phone to disable the security cameras and put the building into a brief security lockdown. He eased himself out of the car, and faked a stumble.

John was at his side instantly, his gun out, covering the rest of the garage. "Are you hurt?" he said, looking over his shoulder, his voice urgent. 

Harold felt terrible about the deception, but he winced as he took another step. "It's nothing," he said. "Just a muscle strain, but I think I'll need some help getting to the elevator." 

John hissed through his teeth, but he wrapped an arm around Harold's back, and helped him limp along. It kept him occupied, Harold told himself, and less likely to shoot anyone who approached him. He wasn't expecting anyone, since the elevators would only open for him just now, but John wasn't in any state for surprises. At least the stimulant meant that he moved Harold to the elevator with the speed and efficiency of the Secret Service guarding a President under threat. Still, Harold could feel the tremor in John's hands. The sweat and the constant flicking of John's gaze made it clear the stimulant was still roaring through his system.

Once he had John in the loft, and John had cleared each room to his satisfaction, Harold urged him towards the bathroom. When John resisted, Harold gave him his most outraged expression. 

"The security here is better than most top-secret facilities, Mr Reese. If you don't trust my abilities now, after the years we have worked together, then I fail to see how you can…" 

John cut him off mid-rant and disappeared into the bathroom. Harold heard the shower running shortly after. He sighed with relief and went to make some tea. Herbal tea. No caffeine.

When John emerged, in a clean suit with his hair slicked back, he came down the stairs with a more steady step, and kissed the top of Harold's head before he sat down beside him at the table. "Feeling a little closer to Planet Earth now," he said. 

"I am so glad," said Harold, relieved. "You should have some tea." He poured a cup for each of them.

John pushed the cup around with one finger for a bit, then, after Harold had pointedly taken a sip, took a mouthful himself. He was still edgy, tapping his fingers and shifting his feet under the table. Harold watched him; he seemed miserably agitated, itchy and unhappy. 

"I have some more of Doctor Tillman's prescription," Harold said, after a while. "It might help you feel a little more settled." 

"I don't want a sedative, Finch!" John snapped, then sighed and ran his hands through his damp hair. "I'm sorry. I honestly thought you might have drugged the tea – that's how paranoid I get on this stuff." Harold raised his eyebrows, and John hurriedly added, "I know you wouldn't do that." 

"Well, at the very least, I'd never ruin a good cup of tea," Harold said. "Would you like something a little gentler?" 

"Like what?" said John, intrigued despite the paranoia. 

Harold pushed himself upright, and moved to the desk. He unlocked it with a small key from his pocket, removed a wooden box and brought it to the table, ran his finger over the carved top with a smile. 

When Harold flipped the box open, John leaned over his shoulder and laughed. It was full of loose leaves, with papers and a little grinder. "That's not tea," he said. 

"It is not tea." Harold pulled out a paper. "Do you prefer a filter or none?" he said, folding the paper into a u-shape. 

John shook his head. "I don't care. Harold, where did that come from?" He asked the question as if Harold had produced a white rabbit from a top hat.

"Nathan gave it to me when we launched IFT," Harold said, as he ground the leaf nice and fine. "In a shoebox apartment, two months behind on the rent, circuit boards and monitors on every surface, and he spent his first cut on this. Said we were grown ups now – we were in our twenties, after all – and we didn't need to keep a Ziploc bag in the sock drawer anymore." 

He smiled at the memory as he ground the leaf nice and fine. He arranged it neatly in the paper, deftly tamped it, then folded, tucked and rolled, licking the gum with the tip of his tongue. "I haven't done this for a while," he said, twisting the end, and shaking the leaf down. "But apparently it's like riding a bicycle." He presented John with the perfectly folded joint. 

John took it, and turned it over in his hand. "When was the last time you rode a bicycle, Finch?" 

Harold gave what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. John was obviously feeling a little better if he could joke again. "And here I thought you were done fishing for details about my life," he said, and passed John the lighter. 

Some time later, John lolled on the floor with his head in Harold's lap, and passed the joint up. Harold sat beside the flickering fireplace, his back braced with a large cushion and legs outstretched on the carpet. He took a long drag and passed it back. 

"How are you feeling now, Mr Reese?" Harold said, his fingertips brushing the hair over John's forehead. It was rare to see John this relaxed, and it made Harold so happy. Or perhaps it was the pot; he did remember this had been sold to him as a particularly euphoric strain.

John inhaled, blew a cloud of smoke away from them, and smiled dreamily. "I am feeling very mellow, Mr Finch," he said.

Harold cupped his face and looked down at him. "I'm so very glad you're all right." 

"Right on," said John, and, to Harold's immense surprise, giggled.


End file.
